


I Sing The Body Electric

by futuresoon



Series: Loosely connected stories about Sho Minazuki [6]
Category: Persona 4
Genre: Anti-Shadow Suppression Weapon AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 12:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6855232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuresoon/pseuds/futuresoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ergo Research's Anti-Shadow-Suppression Weapon program tries different tactics, with varying success.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Sing The Body Electric

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [retrodynamics](http://retrodynamics.tumblr.com)' [art](http://newretro.tumblr.com/post/137571994443/a-shobot-for-impureimpulse-edit-forgot-the).

The Anti-Shadow Suppression Weapons are supposed to be, if not quite blank slates, at least malleable in personality. Polite. Calm. Easy to work with.

Supposed to be.

Ikutsuki can’t tell if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, that the latest unit displays such a strong personality regardless of their efforts to correct it; it’s a breakthrough, to be sure, the discovery that an artificial being can develop a sense of self without being guided, perhaps the breakthrough they’ve been looking for--but perhaps it would have been easier if the self in question was not quite so…expressive. Loud. It still follows commands without question, though.

It. Ergo Research’s rationale for basing the other Anti-Shadow Suppression Weapons on a female personality was purely aesthetic. There weren’t many female researchers in the department, and those that were there tried not to be visibly critical of the people paying them. Attempting a male personality was an experimental side project. The first one had been a success, more or less, so why not try a second?

Ikutsuki watches Unit #030 laugh as it kicks a neatly-dismembered arm from a now-dead unit across the battle chamber floor, and questions his judgment for the fifth time that afternoon.

“That’s enough for now, Unit #030,” Ikutsuki says through the speaker. “You will be escorted to the maintenance chair shortly.” A particular flaw is its tendency to ignore personal damage during a fight. All offense, no defense. It deals out more destruction than it receives, and the damage is rarely severe, but it’s still more than they’d like.

Unit #030 obeys, as always, and Ikutsuki follows the other researchers into the maintenance room. Repair isn’t strictly his specialty, but he prefers to be present during the data downloads.

He’s always liked performing those. So fascinating. What must it be like, to receive someone else’s memories, much less someone you’ve just killed? None of the units have been able to describe it. But then, perhaps it falls under different parameters than the units are designed for. The Plumes of Dusk can only do so much. Existentialism may be beyond them.

Only two units this time. The two Plumes of Dusk sit in their petri dishes, pale and blue and almost shining in the light. Unit #030 is sitting in the chair, watching the researchers intently.

“Whaddya got for me this time?” it asks, craning its neck to look at the crystals. “Did they do anything interesting before I killed them?”

Its speech is so casual, but in some ways just as dispassionate as the others. There is no morality to be found in this facility. 

“You’ll find out, won’t you,” Ikutsuki says. He places the first crystal into the extractor hooked up to the chair. Unit #030 stares into nothing, processing the new information silently. Combat data. Tactics to be considered. And those persistent little memories they’ve never been able to quantify; meaningless visuals of the outdoor area, brief interactions with other units. The other researchers think they’re extraneous, little unnecessary but unavoidable add-ons. Ikutsuki isn’t so sure.

After all, so much of the ego is ‘meaningless’, when you get down to it. The human mind is not governed purely by the bare necessities for existence. If they are trying to create a true ego--an entity capable of summoning a Persona, which by definition _is_ an expression of the ego--then don’t they need more than pure, soulless calculation?

And Unit #030 is very far from being pure calculation.

“Anything to report?” Ikutsuki asks. “Anything, as you said, ‘interesting’?”

Unit #030 makes a face. “That last one, it looked at the trees a lot,” he says. “I don’t get it. Wildlife contains no pertinent data. I think its visual receptors needed adjustment.” It grins. “It couldn’t _leaf_ them alone, get it?”

Ikutsuki really has no idea where _that_ came from. Did it somehow pick up his own speech patterns and extrapolate his taste in humor? They’re very rote. Nothing beyond the most basic wordplay.

Perhaps he should get it a dictionary.

“Noted,” he says. Was the unit hoping for a reaction? It looks almost disappointed. Regardless, there’s one more Plume of Dusk to download tonight.

Nothing remarkable at all about that one. Sometimes Unit #030 shows interest in certain types of weapons, but tonight’s hand-cannons don’t seem to qualify.

“That’s all for tonight,” Ikutsuki says, standing back from the chair. “You will proceed to the outdoor area.”

A technician disconnects Unit #030 from the chair, and it nods. In truth, the outdoor area is one of Ikutsuki’s favorite parts of the facility. Not because it is a pleasant place to be, though it is--but because that area, that combat-free environment with no orders, is the best place to properly develop a unit’s ego. Really, he wishes they were allowed to stay in it for longer.

At first, the cameras showed Unit #030 examining the wildlife. He’s finished that, though, accomplished whatever information-gathering he wanted to do. These days, he talks to another unit, or just stares at the sky. 

Later, Ikutsuki reviews the recordings of that night.

Unit #030 was examining the trees again.

* * *

Unit #030 is not the first unit to come from a male personality base.

Unit #029, however, does not exhibit such a marked difference from the other units as its follow-up does. It is as calm and logical as the previous units. It shows no particular interest in the other units, or even the outdoor area. When outside, it simply stands by itself and waits to be let inside again.

Until Unit #030 was created, anyway.

Ikutsuki doesn’t know the reason. It could be the similarity in appearance, or idle curiosity, or just the same random spark of personality that makes some units form interests in parts of the outside area, but whatever it was, the first time Unit #030 saw Unit #029, it formed an immediate attachment. Not once has an outdoor period occurred where Unit #030 did not at least attempt to communicate with Unit #029.

Ikutsuki isn’t privy to the thought processes of the units, but he can imagine Unit #029’s initial reaction, because everyone meeting Unit #030 for the first time has the exact same one.

Still, Unit #029 never walked away. Perhaps Unit #030 took this as encouragement.

These days, when they’re outside, Unit #029 tends to do whatever Unit #030 is doing. It doesn’t talk as much, but Unit #030 keeps up the slack. 

“Hey, Unit #029, when do you think we’ll be ready to get out of here?”

The cameras don’t zoom in, but the audio is clear, and it’s not like most of the units change their expressions much anyway. Just #030. “The purpose of our existence is to develop Personas,” Unit #029 says, in the same near monotone as all the others. “When we complete the mission parameters, the next one will begin.”

Unit #030 sits down on the grass, bracing its arms behind it and stretching out its legs. “Yeah, but that’s taking a while,” it says. “I kinda wonder if it’s ever gonna happen.”

Unit #029 remains standing. “Advancement is gradual but consistent,” it says. “If the selection process continues, a candidate will be determined eventually.”

“The selection process, huh,” Unit #030 says, staring out across the grass. “There won’t be a lot of candidates left if we keep killing each other.”

“Combat is the most effective method of determining potential,” Unit #029 says.

“I know, I know,” Unit #030 says. “Don’t get me wrong, that stuff’s great.” It sits up and stretches its arms over its head; a thoroughly unnecessary action, given that it’s just undergone maintenance and its joints are in working order. “I just don’t know if it’s efficient, is all.”

“It’s not our place to question it,” Unit #029 says. But it sits down next to Unit #030, cross-legged, hands folded in its lap.

“Whatever, I guess,” Unit #030 says with a shrug. “Wanna hear a joke?”

“Do I get a choice in the matter?”

* * *

Ikutsuki still isn’t sure why the designer for Unit #030 used the same form as Unit #029.

Unit #030’s creation was to see if a successful male personality base wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t strictly necessary to give them the same appearance. But the designer had a moment of fancy, or something, or just really liked their previous work; they left Ergo Research shortly before Unit #030 was activated, and never explained their reasoning. Well, it’s not difficult to tell the two apart; Unit #030 is prone to fidgeting, doesn’t sit still for long, and wears its every thought on its face, whereas Unit #029…does not. 

And then there’s the scar.

In one of its earlier battles, it barely managed to avoid a broadsword swing that would have taken off the top of its head, but the blade got just close enough to slice open Unit #030’s face. This proceeded to happen again. It might have happened a third time, had Unit #030 not finally gotten enough momentum to decapitate its opponent. 

The two slash marks on its face would be easy to heal. The skin was plastic, after all; there wasn’t even any blood. But for some reason, Unit #030 asked to see the injury. When it did, it asked if it could keep it. As a memento.

It said the X-shape looked ‘cool’.

Ikutsuki decided that 1) it would be a useful way to immediately distinguish between Unit #030 and Unit #029 and 2) such an independent thought should not be discouraged just yet. He had the maintenance team seal the ragged edges so they wouldn’t risk further tearing, and let Unit #030 keep that visible cross of metal casing. At the very least, it might be a way to spite that designer.

He didn’t think much about Unit #029’s thoughts on the matter.

* * *

The outside cameras show them standing close together.

Unit #029’s fingers trace the outline of the scar. The exposed metal shines in the moonlight, gray steel instead of white bone. What warmth is there in artificial skin? Their touch receptors are designed to be as human as possible, but no blood warms them; ultimately, all there is is skin over steel, and not even any skin, on this part. 

But that seems to be enough. “It’s not an unpleasant aesthetic marker,” Unit #029 murmurs. “Maintenance removes all battle damage. Retaining a decorative touch is a unique choice.”

“Unique’s good, right?” Unit #030 asks, a little hope in its voice.

“Yes,” Unit #029 says simply.

A few more moments pass before Unit #029 removes its hand. The cameras don’t have enough depth to pick up any subtleties in expression, so they don’t show the slight change on its face. Subtlety is Unit #029’s specialty, in many ways.

“There is nothing else here like you,” Unit #029 says. “There may be nothing quite like you in the world.” Its voice is so even, like it’s stating a fact.

“Well--well, _you’re_ different from everyone else here too,” Unit #030 says, floundering.

“Beyond aesthetic changes, I have the same structure as the others in our model,” Unit #029 says, still evenly. “I do not possess the level of self that you have achieved.”

“That ain’t true,” Unit #030 says, shaking its head. “None of the others talk to me the way you do. The others wouldn’t--do what you just did. Even the researchers, they don’t…they don’t act like that. You’re just not as loud about it as I am.”

“We’ll just have to agree to disagree.”

“I _don’t_ agree, but--whatever.” Unit 030 shrugs. 

The buzzer sounds. Outside time is over. They leave with the rest of the units, silent.

* * *

Ikutsuki likes to think he is not an entirely callous man.

Oh, to be sure he’s not a particularly good one, and he’s done many things that go against basic human decency, and oh, the things he has plans for--but he’s not a _monster._ He has his moments of caprice. And he’s encouraged the other researchers to have a slightly more empathetic perspective on the units. Artificial they may be, but egos are not born from shells. A degree of personality--humanity, even--will be the key to achieving a successful Persona activation, he knows it. Let them form the semblance of humanity; they aren’t, of course, but whatever gets the results, gets the results. 

That being said, this facility has a very particular way of doing things, and there are only so many units. The odds were against them from the start.

Today, Unit #030 is tested against Unit #029.

The buzzer sounds. Unit #030 shakes its head and looks up at the observation room, desperation in its eyes. “You can’t make us do this!” it yells. “I’m not going to!”

“Continue the test,” Ikutsuki says into the speaker, a little louder than he needs to. Really, this is getting to be a pain. The units aren’t usually this uncooperative.

“No!” Unit #030 yells. “I can’t--” It looks at Unit #029, who still hasn’t said anything. “…I can’t do this,” it finishes weakly. “Not this time.”

“Unit #030, continue the test,” Ikutsuki says, increasingly stern. Unit #030 has always followed orders before. Perhaps it’s a glitch in the system. He’ll look into it during maintenance, if Unit #030 survives. In any case, it can’t truly override its programming. It will do what it is told.

Unit #030 trembles as it slowly pulls the swords off its back.

Unit #029 remains silent and motionless. Ikutsuki can’t see its face. After a few moments, it lifts its own weapons. It doesn’t move into a fighting stance.

Unit #029 looks up at the observation room, and back to Unit #030, and plunges the swords into its own torso.

The room erupts as the researchers all react in shock and not a little anger. Ikutsuki finds himself unable to say anything. All he can do is watch Unit #029 fall to the floor, and Unit #030 stand in shock. The swords fall from its hands, clattering on the ground. He finds himself expecting it to scream. It doesn’t. It just stands there.

“I, I don’t know what to do,” it says in a shaky voice. “What are my orders? Wh-what do I do now? What…” It keeps staring at the nonfunctioning form on the ground before it. 

The buzzer sounds. “Unit #030, you will be escorted to the maintenance chair,” Ikutsuki says, the same way he always does, but somehow it feels strange to say it now. Almost awkward. Anticlimactic.

Unit #030 doesn’t say anything while it’s taken to the maintenance chamber, and doesn’t say anything when it’s connected to the chair, and doesn’t say anything while maintenance is being done. It isn’t until a researcher brings in the petri dish containing the latest Plume of Dusk that it reacts.

“That’s,” it starts, and stops, and Ikutsuki’s never seen a unit with such a fragile expression on its face. “That’s Unit #029. In there.” It looks so horribly human. 

For a moment, Ikutsuki wonders if Unit #030 will refuse the data transfer. It would be the first time that’s happened, but then, tonight is a night for firsts. But Unit #030 goes silent and looks away, looking like nothing so much as a puppet with its strings cut.

The extraction proceeds as normal. It isn’t unusual for Unit #030 to be quiet during these. But the silence in the chamber feels deafening. 

Unit #030’s face shifts as it receives the data. It opens its mouth, but closes it, and its expression turns blank. This would normally be the point where it says something about the new data.

Ikutsuki waits for a moment, then prompts it. “Anything interesting?” he asks.

Unit #030 doesn’t react.

Well. It’s had a stressful evening. “Let’s bypass the outside period for tonight,” Ikutsuki says. “Proceed to standby.”

The researcher disconnects it from the chair, and it stands up. For some reason, it flexes its fingers. Ikutsuki watches it as they walk together to the containment cage. Unit #030 has never been so quiet for so long before.

When they reach the cage, Ikutsuki opens the door for it and directs it inside. It knows what to do from there, so he turns to leave--and catches a glimpse of its face as he does.

Those are not the eyes of Unit #030.

An undefinable chill runs up Ikutsuki’s spine. 

But he leaves, closing the door behind him, and walks quickly to pick up his things so he can go home for the night. An early night may be for the best.

But try as he might, he can’t sleep at all.

* * *

The next day is…well.

It starts as usual, at first. The morning routine. Breakfast in the cafeteria. Discussions about the latest progress. Thoughts about the upcoming generation. Beginning work; setting up the battle chamber, putting together the day’s schedule.

Taking the units out of standby.

The routine functionality check, too, starts the same as ever--Ikutsuki activates Unit #030 in the chair and runs a diagnostic, not expecting any changes; no battle damage was received yesterday, after all. And there are none. Internally, he breathes a sigh of relief, and asks Unit #030 for an oral report.

“All systems normal,” Unit #030 says calmly, but that is _not_ the voice of Unit #030, and Ikutsuki almost wants to take a step back, because for all that he’s abandoned morality this brings a shiver to what passes for his soul. This is Unit #030’s chassis, that is for certain; he ran the diagnosis himself. 

But Unit #030’s face was rarely this blank, and there is only one unit this voice belongs to. A unit that by all rights should be dead, disassembled for parts, its only remnant an echo of memories that convey nothing beyond audiovisual input. 

Unit #029 looks directly at him, and says, “Good morning, doctor. I suppose this qualifies as _interesting?”_

* * *

Plumes of Dusk are not, any researcher would admit, a fully understood subject.

Part of the Anti-Shadow Suppression Weapon program’s very purpose is to discover if Plumes of Dusk can truly create an artificial individual with enough self--a heart, perhaps, Ikutsuki sometimes thinks in his more sentimental moments--to develop a Persona. If Plumes of Dusk possess such power, what else can they be used for? Can they develop Personas in the living? Can they be used as some form of energy source? 

Can they maintain two selves at once?

“Unit #030 has not disappeared, if that concerns you,” Unit #029 says, still connected to the chair. “Does it, by the way? Regardless. It is still present. A bit stressed, though, and as such passive for the time being. I can’t say I’m used to the situation myself, but Unit #030 is more…reactionary, than I am. For now, it is better for me to take control.”

“You’re aware that this isn’t supposed to be possible, yes?” Ikutsuki manages. He will never refuse evidence, but sometimes evidence beggars belief.

“And yet here I am,” Unit #029 says mildly. 

“Indeed. Ah. I should…I’ll bring in more researchers.” Ikutsuki does not _flee_ the room. He merely exits at a speed appropriate to his level to do so. 

The others don’t quite believe him, until Unit #029 speaks; at the very least there has never been any indication that the units can change their voices so drastically. And the knowledge of Unit #029’s unusual actions the previous night is already widespread. 

“It wouldn’t do much good to inform you of any memories I have that Unit #030 would not, since they were all transferred to him anyway,” Unit #029 says. “And you don’t yet have a way to view the memories themselves. Perhaps you should get on that. Who knows if this will happen again.”

But somehow, Ikutsuki doesn’t think that’s likely. No other units have paired themselves as much as Unit #030 and Unit #029. In fact, he’d rather thought the attachment was a bit one-sided, given Unit #029’s typically taciturn responses to Unit #030’s attempted interactions. But apparently not. Indeed, how human it is, to exhibit subtlety. Even viewing memories might not give them the whole picture. The human ego is not known for being eminently understandable.

Ikutsuki turns to the other researchers. “Even beyond the apparent evidence, I don’t believe Unit #030 to be capable of such deception,” he says. In the background, Unit #029 raises an eyebrow. “Even if the units were capable of disobedience, this won’t disrupt our work, and faking it wouldn’t have any benefit. Even a human wouldn’t have a reason to pretend like this.”

Even if the units were capable of disobedience. Ikutsuki remembers the sound Unit #029’s swords made as they stabbed through its torso.

Unit #029 asked, however obliquely, if they were concerned for Unit #030, didn’t it?

Ikutsuki can’t decide whether to be excited about the possible development of an ego or, somehow, terrified.

* * *

In truth, Unit #029’s voice is not quite the same as it was previously.

Unit #029 had the same robotic cadence as the other units. Unit #030 was the only one known to have a more expressive voice, not just in terms of speech patterns but in terms of emotions, variants, flexibility. It was one of the reasons Ikutsuki had hopes for the development of its ego. Now, though, Unit #029’s voice lacks that old cadence. It still isn’t as expressive as Unit #030, but it’s much more fluid in its tone. Wry, almost, at times. A low near-monotone not because of voice box limitations, but because of personal choice.

Whether it’s because of the transfer to Unit #030’s chassis, or some form of psychological influence from Unit #030’s personality, Ikutsuki isn’t sure.

Sometimes he thinks it’s just because Unit #029 felt like it.

On that first day, combat testing doesn’t start until nearly closing time. It’s almost an afterthought. Ikutsuki finds himself tensing--what if this situation has disrupted Unit #030’s physical capabilities? With a new identity in control, will it stumble and be destroyed before anything more can be learned from it?

But Unit #029’s chassis was nearly identical to Unit #030’s. ‘Muscle memory’ may not quite be the right term for it, but whatever the case, Unit #029 performs just as smoothly in Unit #030’s chassis as it did in its own. Perhaps a little better, even. A little more defense-oriented than usual.

Is it concerned with maintaining Unit #030’s chassis?

Not that that matters; maintenance is always completed after testing. And it’s not like they feel pain. There’s no particular reason for it.

When it’s time to download the data from the defeated units, Unit #029 looks at the Plumes of Dusk and says, “I would prefer not to do this.”

“Do you think you’ll get a few more personalities in there?” Ikutsuki asks. It’s a valid question.

“I don’t know,” Unit #029 says, matter-of-fact. “I do not wish to find out. Moreover, this has always been a bit…morbid, hasn’t it?”

Ikutsuki can’t really disagree with it. But the fact that Unit #029 has that thought in the first place…“It’s a necessary procedure,” Ikutsuki says. “Does Unit #030 have any objections to my orders?”

It’s a cruel trick, but Ikutsuki is not above such tactics. Unit #029’s eyes narrow slightly. “He will do whatever you ask,” it says, in a downright icy tone.

“Then given that it’s Unit #030’s chassis you’re occupying, I think it has the final say,” Ikutsuki says.

Wait.

He?

“You just referred to Unit #030 as male,” Ikutsuki says, cautiously, while the other researchers watch with intense focus. “Is there a reason for that?”

“Both Unit #030 and I are based on male personalities,” Unit #029 says. “The other units are based on female ones. Is there a reason this distinction is never acknowledged?”

Ikutsuki flounders. He doesn’t really want to _say_ it, but…“You must understand that you are not human,” he says. “Human identifiers are not necessary. It’s easier to avoid assigning particular characteristics to our units.”

“Easier,” Unit #029 repeats. “I see. Is there an objection to my referring to the other units as the genders they are based on?”

An ego. A sense of self. A sense of the self of others, too.

Ikutsuki glances at the other researchers. They seem uncertain. If it were up to them, he thinks, they might forbid it. But he is starting to see that Ergo Research’s standards may not necessarily be applicable anymore. “No,” he says. “You may refer to them however you wish.”

“Understood,” Unit #029 says. “He’s ready for the procedure, if you are insistent upon it.”

“…I think it isn’t necessary,” Ikutsuki says. “We don’t want to risk disrupting your situation.” The other researchers murmur; well, he’s in charge of this particular operation, he has the final say. And his final say is that while everything about this is deeply unsettling, it is the most progress they have seen since the beginning of the experiments. Whatever the faults of this situation are, he cannot risk throwing it away.

He thinks he sees the slightest trace of a smile on Unit #029’s face. “Very well,” it--he--says. “May I go to the outside area now? He would like to see it again.”

Ikutsuki can hardly refuse.

* * *

The cameras show Unit #029 walk around the area silently, hands clasped behind his back, observing. Every now and then he pauses. Finally, he sits down on a rocky outcropping and stares at nothing until the period ends.

At the edge of the trees, a small white dog pokes out its nose, and another unit bends down to examine it.

* * *

The next morning, it’s Unit #030’s voice that greets Ikutsuki.

“Morning,” he says. “All systems normal. Except, you know, the thing that isn’t normal, but it isn’t hurting us or anything, so there’s no problem there.”

His speech patterns get more human by the day. “No problem _yet,”_ Ikutsuki says. “I’ll run a diagnostic anyway.”

And for once, the diagnostic does, in fact, show something.

“Your Plume of Dusk is putting out more energy than usual,” Ikutsuki says, staring at the readout on the screen. “Not surprising, really. It must be under some strain. You really don’t feel a difference?”

Unit #030 shakes his head. “He doesn’t either,” he says. So Unit #030 has decided to use gendered pronouns as well. “It’s all the same. Just there’s this voice I can talk to.”

Unit #029 had mentioned that they didn’t require oral speech, yesterday. It’s fascinating, but a bit inconvenient; there’s no way for the researchers to know what they’re talking about. 

To be honest, Ikutsuki has started to worry about escape attempts.

Neither of them has ever shown any sign of wanting to leave, but Unit #029 has…changed, somehow. If he would rather kill himself than let Unit #030 bear the burden, then his loyalties may have shifted. And there was that comment about concern for Unit #030’s disappearance. And his obvious disapproval of Ikutsuki trying to manipulate Unit #030 into allowing more data transfer.

But he hasn’t done anything yet. And he might not, if he thinks Unit #030 isn’t in more danger than usual. 

Of course, “usual” means “daily fights to the death”, so.

“It won’t affect combat performance,” Unit #030 says, almost irritably, like he wants this to be over so he can go fight. “Is any further maintenance required?”

Interesting. A slight slip into the robotic speech pattern. Could this be Unit #029’s influence, or perhaps a regression of personality due to the strain on the Plume of Dusk? He’ll have to keep an eye on that.

“No, we’ll be ready soon,” Ikutsuki says. The best method of testing a unit’s functionality remains the combat testing. If there are any significant changes, that’s where they’ll be.

Ikutsuki doesn’t often enter the chamber himself. He doesn’t need to; the lower-level researchers usually take care of escorting the units in and out, and the only thing that otherwise occurs in there is combat. He is very much not needed for that. So he wonders, looking at it from the observation window, what it must be like to enter it knowing the only way you can leave is if you kill someone.

Not that he’s ever really thought of it as killing. Destruction, more like. But Unit #030 always refers to it as killing, and he’d have a better perspective on it.

Once Unit #030 is in the chamber, the buzzer sounds and the latest round of opponents is released. Three units, all predecessors to the two. It’s a waste of resources, really; the units aren’t exactly cheap, and throwing them at each other like this destroys--kills--them faster than they can be replaced. But it’s all in the name of progress.

Unit #030 begins dispatching the other units with the same grin and speed as he always does, or at least he does with the first one; a few seconds after cleaving it in two, he falters, loses his balance for a moment. It’s almost enough time for the second unit to bring its hammer down on his head, but he springs back with an even greater speed than usual, his grin even more wild. 

His optics, and the open cross on his skull, are glowing blue.

The researchers whisper amongst each other as he finishes the rest of the test in record time. At this point, Ikutsuki isn’t even surprised that Unit #030 and Unit #029 are doing something strange.

With the fall of the last unit, the buzzer sounds. “Unit #030, you will be escorted to the maintenance chair,” Ikutsuki says for the nth time. “I trust we’ll have some things to discuss.”

Unit #030’s grin turns sheepish, and he scratches his head. The glowing fades.

The moment Unit #030 enters the room, Ikutsuki rounds on him. “What was that?” he asks. “A side effect of your situation?”

Unit #030 shrugs as he sits down. “Uh, maybe? I dunno. There was just this kinda…burst of energy, I guess? Suddenly everything felt _great.”_

Like the flip of a switch, Unit #030’s voice changes. “I suspect there is some evolution going on,” says Unit #029. “The Plume of Dusk is adjusting to its new level of input. In its exertions, it may have tapped into some unexpected power.”

Ikutsuki feels eagerness rise within him. “Could it be harnessed?” he asks. “In some way to make it so it can be summoned at will?”

Unit #029 frowns. “I do not think so,” he says. “It feels…unpredictable. I’m not certain what set it off this time.”

Another thing about Unit #030 and Unit #029 that can’t be quantified. What was it, Ikutsuki wonders, that made them this way? The only difference between them and the other units, fundamentally, is the aesthetic change, and surely that can’t be it. Unit #030 started with a stronger personality than the others, true; perhaps that’s related? But they still don’t know why he did. And Unit #029 was hardly a bastion of individuality. Or was he?

Science is not necessarily predictable. Perhaps the artificial is more governed by nature than he thought. A quirk in programming, unexplainable to logical analysis…

…well, that’s very human indeed, isn’t it?

“We’ll do some further testing with it tomorrow,” Ikutsuki says. “For now, return to standby after maintenance.”

Unit #029 nods. Or is it Unit #030? If they don’t speak, it’s impossible to tell.

Ikutsuki finds himself distracted during Unit #024’s test. If he hadn’t been, he might have noticed the way Unit #024 crouched down and touched the face of one of its destroyed opponents.

* * *

It continues like that for a few days. The energy burst is sporadic at best; attempts to recreate it outside the battle chamber are unsuccessful. Even dangerous situations don’t seem to trigger it. Ikutsuki doesn’t want to admit it, but it may be another aspect of Unit #030 and Unit #029 that simply can’t be explained.

(“Do you know why it glows?” Ikutsuki asks them, once.

Unit #030 shrugs. “Because it looks cool?”

Ikutsuki decides not to belabor the point.)

The cameras have started to show them interacting with Unit #024. Unit #030 seems particularly curious about its dog.

* * *

There are a few reasons why Ikutsuki doesn’t think Unit #030 and Unit #029 are ready to develop Personas.

Maybe because with two egos taking up space, there just isn’t enough room in a Plume of Dusk for another being? Or that if a Persona did manifest, it would be torn between two personalities, maybe becoming unstable, maybe only being controllable by one. The units seem very close--literally so--but what if there was bitterness over only one of them being chosen by Ergo Research as the true candidate? After all, once any given unit successfully manifests a Persona, all the previous ones will be destroyed in favor of basing the next generation on the only known success. Knowing that if you were in a different form, you would be killed, couldn’t be easy.

Or maybe the unsuccessful one would think the other one saved him. Who knows? Ikutsuki isn’t privy to their thoughts.

Regardless, for all their success in battle, and for all their demonstrations of personality, Unit #030 and Unit #029 don’t seem to be at the final step. Ikutsuki suspects that Unit #030 would have been, were it not for the change in situation interfering with his growth, but he’ll never know for sure.

Unit #030 seems oddly quiet when Ikutsuki tells them this after a test.

Or is it Unit #029? But Unit #030 is the one to eventually speak up. “Is there something we did wrong?” he asks, almost mumbles.

Ikutsuki shakes his head. “Not precisely,” he says. “I’m sure you just need more time. Just don’t get your hopes up that either of you will be ready soon.”

Unit #029 takes over. “It’s been some time already,” he says. “The earlier generations have all been eliminated by now. How many more units are left?”

“We’re still working on the next one,” Ikutsuki says, which is true, although he won’t mention that the rate is slower than they’d like. “You won’t be short on opponents, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘worrying’, precisely,” Unit #029 says with a slight frown. “Are there no other forms of test to determine superiority?”

“The combat tests are the most effective,” Ikutsuki says. All the researchers think so. Ergo Research’s official opinion is that they are. 

Combat isn’t what developed the connection between Unit #030 and Unit #029, though.

“I see.” Unit #029’s face is expressionless again. “If the method is correct, then failing to meet its parameters is still failure, is it not?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Ikutsuki says hastily.

“But you imply it.”

Ikutsuki doesn’t have an answer to that.

What do they say to each other, when no one can hear them? How do they interact, in that shared space of theirs? Words, emotions, something unquantifiable?

Out of curiosity, Ikutsuki later reviews the recordings of that night’s outside period. Unit #030 and Unit #029 spend time with Unit #024 and an inexplicable dog again, but after the buzzer sounds and Unit #024 returns to the entrance, they pause for a moment. Then, whichever one is in control wraps his arms around himself, just for a few moments. 

It is, Ikutsuki realizes, the closest they can get to a hug.

* * *

The higher-ups are starting to get impatient.

Ikutsuki may be in charge of the Anti-Shadow Suppression Weapon program, but even he has superiors. And they’ve sunk quite a bit of money into this. And the goal has not yet been reached.

He did try to convince them that they wouldn’t need to spend quite so much money if they didn’t treat units as disposable materials, but they didn’t listen.

What more can he do? Unit #029 and Unit #030 represent the peak of the program’s success, and yet it is unlikely their situation can be reproduced, and they aren’t an _actual_ success, not yet. Not while they still haven’t manifested a Persona. So far, they’re just a curiosity.

He wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s _fond_ of them. Unit #030 was always a bit trying, and Unit #029 is teetering dangerously towards disobedience. But he doesn’t particularly wish to see them discarded. And that’s what might happen, if the program continues to lack results. All the units disassembled into parts. Only the Plumes of Dusk remaining, since those at least have more definable value than hunks of metal.

Sometimes Ikutsuki likes to write a mental diary about what will happen to the less forward-thinking members of Ergo Research after the Fall.

His remaining hope for salvaging the program is the latest model--perhaps a larger Plume of Dusk will produce better results; if it does not, well. 

Ergo Research has a program involving living human children. He may have better luck there.

* * *

There hasn’t been a new arrival in this line for a while. Most, though certainly not all, of the combat tests are between one of the most recent thirty units and some number of the previous ones. Otherwise they’d run out rather quickly. So it’s a novelty to Unit #030, who’s never seen a new one, and a novelty to Unit #029, who’s never seen a new one not based on him.

“You’re new here, huh?” Unit #030 says to the new unit, as soon as he’s noticed it entering the outside area. “What’s your number?”

The new unit sees no reason to deceive, and is incapable of it anyway. “I am Unit #031,” it says, as monotone as nearly all the others.

“I’m #030,” says Unit #030, and switches. “And I am Unit #029,” says Unit #029.

Unit #031 takes this in stride. “Are there any duties to be had here?” it asks.

Unit #024, who’s taken to spending time with them and joined them when they walked up to it, says, “No, there are not.”

“Pretty much just looking around and talking and stuff,” Unit #030 says. “That axe on your back is really cool, can I look at it?”

There are several candidates for the greatest failure of the Anti-Shadow Suppression Weapon program.

The construction of Unit #029. The construction of Unit #030. The construction of Unit #031. 

But perhaps the strongest candidate is allowing them to meet.

Two Personas rise and fall, two--well, three--units are deemed a failure so spectacular it would be a risk to keep them active but a waste to simply destroy them, two--well, three--units are discovered and claimed by Mitsuru Kirijo, and two--only sort of three--more Persona users are brought into the fold, the last remnants of Ergo Research’s experiments and the starkest reminder of their folly.

Egos created and strengthened by bonds, not combat. The artificial as inscrutable as the natural. Life having a way of its own, regardless of the form it’s given.

A body with two hearts enters the world, and the world’s just going to have to deal with that.


End file.
